Jargon
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: She spends far too much time staring at him, heedless of what curiousity did to the cat. One shot. 9Rose. Comfy as an armchair.


**A/N: Gentle little one-shot. Entirely at odds with this Other One I have whirling around in my brain.**

**Jargon**

I spend far too much time staring at him, trying to divine his thoughts, and see what and how he sees. Its an impossible task, and I know it. He reminds me of it often enough— a half-joking reference to me being a stupid ape, or rattling off long words that mean nothing to me and when I try to pin him down he looks as bemused as I feel for a minute, and then shakes his head quickly.

"Nothing, Rose," he says, and pats me on the arm. "Just technical jargon, is all. Not important."

I know there's a million things going on in his head at any given moment, thoughts exploding like fireworks, emotions in a constant tug of war that I'll never be able to comprehend— none of this explains how daft he looks sometimes— a depth and complexity to his mind that humans don't even approach. And if I'm confused about the directions my emotions pull me in, I can't imagine what he feels now, as he sits by me, a vague smile on his face. His fingers rub lightly on the inside of my forearm— nearly constant little touches are a gift I revel in, and don't have to work for, and cannot imagine living without— what emotion dominates the inner workings of his mind? What's he thinkin' as he sits there staring at me?

Too much time staring at him, too little time spent observing the intricacies of space and time that surround me, that we travel through. But, I realize, the lanky alien sitting beside me is no less a wonder and a thrill than the rest of the universe. Its terrifically easy to forget he isn't human. His face bears all the awkward, endearing marks of random hereditary selection, that nose like the prow of a ship, those ears like sails, the eyes the sea, and then that bright and brilliant impossible grin that, should he be damned for a lifetime of unspeakable crimes, will win him eternal salvation. There's no saying no to it.

And I don't want to. If he asked me, the answer could only ever be yes. Travel with me, Rose? Leave the earth behind for me, Rose? 'Nother adventure, Rose? Footrub, Rose? Tea, Rose? Kiss me, Rose?

I'm delusional. It is, it is, so terrifically, so horribly easy, to forget who and what and why he is. To forget that the first time I met him he blew things up and saved the world and took me away on the most peculiar space ship I could ever imagine, and he hasn't stopped doin' any of those things since. Its only natural I'd love him. There's no getting around it. Everyone he ever met must have loved him, surely, at one point in time, which he certainly seems to have a lot of. Why shouldn't I be one of the many?

Even if I want to be the only?

I can't explain, not even to myself, what it is I see when I look in his eyes. There's affection there, without doubt, a genuine liking for me, a sense of obligation. He feels responsible for me, for my wellbeing. He'd give his all to keep me from getting killed. To keep me from any pain at all.

Its not what I want.

He's sitting here now, the wanderings of his fingers have changed location and he's tracing the veins of my palm, eyes half closed in thought. What was it we were waiting for? He'd explained it at some point. I must have forgotten. He's relaxed, though, his shoulders the least tense I'd seen them for a very long time. He looks a little pleased with himself; he doesn't know how close I am to going absolutely stark raving mad from curiosity.

So I lean forward, and cup his chin in my other hand. His eyes dart up to meet mind, a bit startled but not dismayed, not apprehensive. We've had a stellar couple of days, this last week, I've not done anything stupid, and it seems right now I can't disappoint him, no matter what I do, at least in the here and now. To kiss him would be too much of a catalyst, something our friendship would likely never recover from; there must be some other way to satisfy my curiosity.

Perhaps telling the truth wouldn't be entirely amiss. We both do that every now and then.

I lean further towards him, and look in his eyes, which narrow with a spark of amusement, and something else.

"You're fantastic," I tell him. "And I love you madly. And as we sit here, I can't help thinkin'—"

There's a definite hitch in his breath, and all of a sudden I can see in his eyes what he's waiting for, just as I can see that he knows neither of us are ready. Not now.

"Can't help thinkin', gosh, I'm bloody bored. Can't we do somethin' more exciting for a bit?"

His face relaxes again; he laughs.

"Alright," he tells me. "I promised to show you the wonders of the universe, and so I will. Your fault for being impatient, if you get hungry later on. There's no such thing as a five star restaurant where we're going."

Ah. That's what it was we were doing.

"Fancy technology like the TARDIS and you can't get an oven that works faster?" I retort.

He laughs again, and brushes a kiss on the back of my hand. "Come on," he says. "What are we waiting for?"

Exactly what I'd been wondering; I stand, and he holds onto my hand, and leads me out the door.

There's love here, I tell myself, scarcely able to believe it. Perhaps not the kind I want, but love nonetheless. And I can't really be impatient for something more. Given enough time, we'll come to mean everything to each other. Those seeds were going to grow.

And wasn't every day one and the same to a Time Lord? New planet to save, new battle to fight, and a love that started immediately just kept growing?

"Better than nothing," I murmur to myself. He glances at me quizzically.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," I tell him, a smile taking root and growing. "Technical jargon."

I cannot be impatient; this now, this happening, this friendship, is what needs to be first. And no time is wasted that is spent with him.

His fingers tighten on mine, and we walk away from the TARDIS, hand in hand, ever the same, and into someone else's new beginning.


End file.
